


If Life Could Give Me One Blessing (It'd Be You)

by C4t1l1n4



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, Fae & Fairies, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Sad with a Happy Ending, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, fuck that episode, if they don't make up next season i will hunt down the writers myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25284223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C4t1l1n4/pseuds/C4t1l1n4
Summary: Geralt's words do more damage than he thought they wouldOrAs a Faery who mates for life, Jaskier's light starts to go out when Geralt yells at him on the mountainObligatory The Mountain TM fix-it fic
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 648





	If Life Could Give Me One Blessing (It'd Be You)

**Author's Note:**

> \- Making up my own lore to suit my needs  
> \- Butchering of fae/faery lore  
> \- Based on Tinkerbell’s light going out when someone says they don’t believe in fairies  
> \- I broke my own heart writing this, join me in my puddle of tears  
> \- Hopefully, the fluff at the end makes up for the angst in the beginning

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

Jaskier stumbles away from the angry Witcher, barely stopping long enough to hoist his lute over his shoulder and just walks. There’s something pinging deep down inside of him, but he has to wait until he’s out of sight, before he can clear his head enough to identify what it is. 

He doesn’t get far, maybe half a mile down, because with each step, each passing second he loses energy, will to keep on moving. He ends up collapsing and leans up against the rocky side of the mountain. 

“Mate, mate, mate… no.” Words work their way out of his throat in a low and pitiful whine and it's only then that he really connects the dots. 

Jaskier is a faery. Normally, faeries stay small, flittering around the woods they are born in, but they can take on a more human size. Jaskier had done so years ago, to be able to see more of the world, and often returned to his home during the winter. He had come home after his first year, crying to his mother about all the heartbreak he had suffered over the year, and his mother had just given him a soft, sad smile. 

“Little Dandelion,” she had chirped into his ear, running fingers through soft brown hair, “That is not real heartbreak.” He had looked up at her, defiance dancing in his eyes. “True heartbreak will kill you.” 

Jaskier gets her point now. 

Faeries mate for life and the person who Jaskier’s inner faery had dubbed his mate had just told him he’d never want to see him again. 

“Oh,” Jaskier huffs out a bitter laugh, and he feels it. He knows that Geralt was just mad, needs some time to calm down, didn’t mean it, but it’s too late for that. He feels the warmth that he carries with him from the forest, the warmth that keeps his heart from freezing solid, the warmth that powers his very soul, he feels it start to flicker.

His body demands to be small, to shrink back down to his normal size until he’s nothing but a flickering light on the path, but Jaskier refuses to endanger himself in that way, to be stepped on, so he compromises. He lets his wings, his delicate golden wings, flutter into existence behind him. They quiver anxiously before drooping, no energy as the ice-cold starts to make its way to his heart. It has already covered his fingertips, dusting the tips of his hair, freezing his feet. 

Taking a smaller form would also speed up the process, Jaskier thinks, and he wonders if that would be a blessing or a curse. 

It’s the dwarves that find him, concern etched into their faces, even though Jaskier thought they were long gone. 

“You’re a faery.” One of them says. 

“What gave it away?” Jaskier snarks, but his breath is cold, and there is no real harshness in him voice. He knows his wings are out, drooping on display, but he wonders if his ears are pointier than normal, if his teeth are sharper, if his eyes have changed as well, pupils thinning into cat-like slits.

“What’s happening?” The dwarf asks again.

“Mate,” is all the Jaskier manages, a shiver wracking his body, the blue-gray color of the ice clashing with the red of his doublet. 

“Look at his hands,” says another.

“They’re frozen.”

“That fucking Witcher.” A different one snarls. 

“He doesn’t know.” Jaskier croaks out. 

The dwarf doesn’t seem to care. “Doesn’t matter, I’m gonna drag his ass down here and make him figure it out. I’m not having any more faeries die while if I can do anything about it.”

Jaskier watches them go, heading back up the mountain, and something like hope dimly flickers inside him. 

——  
Geralt is sitting back on that rock, thinking. It’s been a few hours, but he has a lot to process, and wonders if he should just meditate instead. He’s caught off guard when someone smacks him across the back of his head, _hard._ Not hard enough to knock him out, but definitely enough to garner his attention. 

He whirls around and is met by the four dwarves from earlier, who are staring at him with varying levels of anger and concern. 

“What do you want?” Geralt snarls, displeased with being interrupted so rudely. “I thought you left.”

The dwarf closest to him levels him with a glare. “We were, until we stumbled across your bard on the way down, laying in a heap, dying.” He snarls out with a similar intensity. 

Geralt blinks, and something tugs at his heart, fear leaping up into his eyes. 

“You’re bard is a faery.” The dwarf tells him, and Geralt blinks a few times at that, to make sure he heard everything properly. “And, he’s labeled you as his mate.” Geralt’s eyes widen, but the dwarf plows forward. “No, you are going to listen to what I say, and you are going to help.” Geralt had forgotten that Dwarves and Faeries often work together, and briefly wonders how many faeries he had seen die. “I do not care if you do not return his feelings, you are going to apologize so he doesn’t turn into a solid chunk of ice right here on this very mountain.”

Geralt just nods, and the dwarf turns around, leading the way back down the mountain. 

——  
Jaskier looks almost as terrible as he feels. The ice has advanced, faster the longer the dwarves don’t return. _I’ve been abandoned, I’ve been abandoned!_ His mind screams and the ice works its way up his arms and legs, down his face. He stares out at the world with gray eyes, the slow beat of his heart barely keeping him alive. His wings are tense, frozen and brittle, and a tear makes its way down his cheek, but it freezes almost immediately. 

His enchanted sense of smell picks up at the Witcher’s scent before he sees them, and Jaskier doesn’t know how to react. The faery inside of him screams _Mate, Mate! Mate is here to help us,_ but Jaskier is skeptical. Why would Geralt want to help him, especially now that he knows the truth about Jaskier’s feelings and that he’s been lying about the fact that he’s not human for ages? 

When Geralt is in sight, the dwarves surrounding him and shoving him closer, Jaskier lets out a whine, but he doesn’t know what part of him it’s expressing. Geralt crouches down in front of him, a stricken look of despair etched on his face. Jaskier would laugh, bitter and hopeless, if he could.

The normal light that surrounds him is gone, the light that makes him shine golden and radiant. It’s replaced with a glazed overtone of gray, making the normally beaming bard look sickly and pale. 

Geralt reaches out to touch him, and Jaskier manages a small “Please,” but he doesn’t even know what he’s asking.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, voice wavering, clouded with emotion. “I’m so sorry. I was so stupid. I didn’t mean anything I said. I was just… so angry. And- and it was easier to push you away myself, then to see you walk away by choice.”

 _Mate!,_ Jaskier thinks, but cannot say, _I would never leave you, you stupid Witcher. You are mate._

Geralt gently pulls Jaskier into his lap and hugs him tightly, but carefully in order to not hurt him. “I’m so bad with words, Jaskier, why did you choose someone like me? I may not act like it all the time, but you are a good person Jaskier, and I love you, of course, I love you.” 

Jaskier’s heart flickers with hope, he feels something stutter to life in his chest, and he could almost cry with joy. Faster than he froze, he thaws as Geralt continues to whisper sweet nothings and little promises into his ear. “We’re going to find the nearest inn and stay there for weeks, _weeks_ until you’re up for traveling again, and then when winter hits, I’m going to take you home, back to Kaer Morhen, and introduce you to my brothers as my mate.”

Jaskier springs into action, toppling the balance until he has Geralt flat on his back, hovering over him. “I’m holding you to that.” 

Geralt’s eyes widen. “You’re glowing.” 

Jaskier hums, feeling the warmth travel through him and stretches his wings, fluttering them gently. “So I am.” He meets Geralt’s golden eyes. “Thank you.” 

Any response Geralt might’ve had is cut off as Jaskier takes notice of the four dwarves off to the side. He smiles at them, and they are not put off by the sharpness of his teeth or the brightness of his glowing, golden skin. 

“Thank you.” He says to them, sincerely. “I do not have anything to give you to repay your service-“

“Don’t worry about it,” one of the dwarves says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Your life is enough.” And with that, they turn away, heading down the mountain to give the lovers their peace. 

Jaskier turns his attention back to Geralt, who still lays pinned under him. “We have a lot of catching up to do.” He says, eyes dancing with mischief, teeth wicked sharp. 

“So we do.” 

Jaskier sits up, straddling the Witcher’s waist, debating. “I could write a ballad about this, you know.” He eyes where his notebook sits inside his lute case. “It would make for a great song, I could sing it for your family in the winter.” 

Geralt huffs amused, but reaches up and grabs Jaskier’s wrist, dragging him back down on top of him. “Later,” He says, pulling Jaskier into a searing kiss. “We have some catching up to do.” 

“Yes,” Jaskier hums between kisses, delicate wings fluttering with delight, “Finding an inn can wait.”


End file.
